In the kitchen there’s a month’s worth of bourbon bottles and pizza boxes all over the bench. There are glasses everywhere and smells coming from cupboards I haven’t opened in a long time. It’s just like the Alderman house. I pour a glass of water and gulp down a pair of painkillers. I should probably eat but never seem to have any appetite — though the number of pizza boxes suggests differently. I open the fridge on the off-chance that might change, but when I see what’s in there I reckon I’ll probably never eat again. I make some coffee, then take a shower. It’s been month since I used a washing machine or an iron, and I don’t see any point in breaking a tradition that seems to be working. I grab some clothes from the top of one of the hampers, figuring they’ll smell less than the ones at the bottom, and definitely less than the ones I just slept half the day in. I dig my hands into the hamper and pull up the clothes from the bottom, recycling them to the top where they’ll air out more.
The dining table has a stack of unopened bills. Bills for power, for the phone, for the mortgage and for my wife. Most of Bridget’s bills are covered by insurance, but not everything. There’s even an outstanding bill from the florist. The rent on my office has expired — or, more accurately, I stopped paying it, and a message left on my machine says the lease is being terminated. I think after what happened the last night I was there, they were quick to kick me out. The industrial cleaners came out to give me a quote but I wasn’t there to see it. They tried contacting me for a bit, but then gave up. I don’t even know what in the hell happened. There’s probably a bill in here to tell me.
I don’t have the money to pay for another taxi — I’m not even sure how I paid to get home from the station. The small amount of cash left in my wallet already has a designated purpose. I don’t have a lot of options.
It takes me over an hour to walk to the cemetery, by which time the day is fading and my hands and feet are almost numb.
The church looks dark and gloomy. Mine is the only car parked out front. I’m violating the boundaries of the protection order even approaching it, but that’s just one more thing I couldn’t really give a damn about.
Just as I get the car started, a van pulls up behind me, blocking me in so that I can’t go anywhere. It’s a similar view to the one I had this morning, except it isn’t two policemen who wander over but a reporter and a cameraman. I recognise Casey Horwell imediately. She pulls down on the front of her suit jacket to try to get her breasts looking a little better than they are, and it occurs to me that if she can’t get a miracle like that in a church car Park she’s never going to get it.
Just a few questions,’ she says, knocking on my window. Her voice is muffled behind the glass.
‘No comment,’ I say back.
I don’t know what to do. I can’t drive anywhere, and I can’t talk to these people, and I can’t just sit here hiding, because that makes me look guilty or stupid or both. The only alternative is to open the door and climb out. Actually, there is an alternative, but it involves pushing Casey Horwell over into the gravel and stealing the cameraman’s camera. Instead, I try my best to put on a blank face and use it to look into the camera.
And I say nothing.
‘You’re back here at the cemetery where it all began,’ she says, and I wonder how she knew I would be here — a tip-off of a lucky guess. Maybe luck didn’t have anything to do with it. Just logic.
I don’t respond.
‘Which is strange, because it’s now on public record you have had a protection order against you. You were picked up this morning violating it, and instead of being thrown in jail, the friends you so proudly have in the department let you out, and what’s worse is they bring you right back here so you can get your car.’
I let her carry on, not bothering to correct her mistake on how I got here. The last thing she wants me to do is to say absolutely nothing and give her dead air. She starts to scramble, trying to keep up.
‘Would you care to comment on the disappearance of Sidney
Alderman?’
I don’t answer her.
‘Because my source tells me that you’re involved with his
disappearance.’
Still nothing.
‘What do you think Father Julian’s involvement is in all of this? How long will you keep stalking him? And how far do you think you will take it?’
Her questions are suggestive but I don’t answer them. I’m sure that on camera I look tired and hung over and every bit the murderer she wants me to be. But there’s no way I’m going to say anything to her.
Finally she gives up. ‘That’s a wrap,’ she says, and drags her finger across her throat. The cameraman lowers his camera. The light switches off.
‘Who’s your source?’ I ask.
‘Didn’t think you were talking.’
‘Who?’
‘You don’t seriously think I’m going to tell you that?’
‘You can’t, can you, because there is no source. You keep pissing people off, Horwell, and it’s going to catch up on you.’
‘And you’ll take care of that? It’s what you do, isn’t it?’
I climb back into my car. She walks with the cameraman back to the van, and I think I hear her saying there’s enough time to do something with the piece tonight. Great. That means I’ll be making the ten o’clock news. Just when my parents are likely to be watching.